


Starry Eyed

by EntreNous



Category: Moonshot/RPS
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, M/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Neil can picture it now, as the heat from Buzz's body starts to warm Neil's skin even more than the high temperature outside: Buzz piloting the lunar module, his second in command, the two of them moving together in close quarters.  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Starry Eyed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kita0610](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kita0610).



Neil moves forward through life with purpose, with a clear-headed view of what he needs and where he's going. Every turn he makes is sure before he's made it; every path he takes is certain when he is on it.

That's why tonight's steps -- ending with him in the back yard with Buzz, watching him watch the stars -- are so very strange. There's no clear rationale or goal in mind, and that's not like Neil.

To start with, he's not one for asking after someone's troubles. And Buzz, with a drink in his hand and a dark look in his usually bright eyes as he's stumbling away from tonight's gathering, certainly seems troubled. Neil knows the others they work with (some of them grouped around the television back inside, watching the astronauts' live broadcast) possess far more skills where troubles and worries are concerned.

Nor is Neil one to follow anyone who leaves a situation for emotional reasons. When people murmur things like, "Someone ought to go after him," Neil is the one standing to the side, unobtrusively looking elsewhere. He isn't the pal, the buddy, the friend to all who has a reassuring tone and a quiet touch as he says, "I'll go."

Tonight, however, no one can remark on the peculiarity of Neil following Buzz. No one notices. Everyone is focused on the television screen, moon-faced at the flickering images and ooh-ing and aah-ing over astronauts who pretend to be poets, spouting pretty words for all of America as they circle the earth.

The mission's details and procedures fascinate Neil, of course. But he can't see why he should boggle at the scene along with the wives all asking wide-eyed questions, touching men's sleeves with their manicured hands to gain their attention. And he certainly doesn't wish to join the men's ranks tonight as they shoot each other looks of satisfaction for something they're watching instead of doing.

That, at least, is a reason to leave the room -- Neil finds the company insufferable. Buzz, even with the awkward anxieties Neil can read on his handsome face, is a far more appealing alternative.

It's odd enough they do any of this regularly, Neil thinks as he walks across the closely cropped grass, without the excuse of a broadcast to watch: this gathering at one man's home, children playing at another's, having dinner parties and cocktail hours and open houses, with wives in smart dresses, the men jovial and clapping each other on the shoulders. Neil finds it hard to see the point in playing at being a friendly little enclave. They're competitors. They would best maintain respectful distance from one another.

If Neil had determined the dynamic, they would all work together amiably, efficiently. Then each evening after work, they would pull into their driveways and head up their walks, perhaps with a brisk nod for their immediate neighbors for courtesy's sake. Then they would each go inside and shut their doors until morning.

Still, as Neil arrives outside with the whine of insects too close in his ears, Buzz seems intrigued at the prospect of his company. He even flashes that ready grin Neil has seen him aim at others. As he greets Buzz with his own more moderate reaction, the thought comes to him: were they all living under Neil's ideal model, ordered and quiet without Sunday suppers and Friday night pot-lucks and summertime cook-outs, he would never get a chance to spend this night with Buzz.

More to the point, Neil thinks as they each take a seat, Buzz would never have elected to spend time with Neil. Buzz is jocular, he's hot-headed, and he's more often than not raucous in groups. Given the choice, he typically chooses to sit with other fellows at briefings rather than Neil. They never get together just the two of them for a drink or a chat. Buzz most certainly cannot consider Neil a friend.

But soon enough after Buzz greets him they are smoking together as if they were regular companions, Neil occupying the chair above, Buzz sprawled on the steps of the deck below, all very easy and comfortable.

"...you know what I mean?" Buzz asks.

Neil appreciates the gesture of inclusion in the middle of Buzz's rambling, but he can tell no answer is required. It may be that absence of obligation, or it may be the lulling hum of night sounds around them (or perhaps the whiskey he's put away tonight) but Neil finds himself glancing down at Buzz with something like fondness.

"Hmm," Neil offers when Buzz pauses. Buzz takes the cue with ease, tilting his head, continuing on with his earnest musings.

Because he doesn't have to reply to Buzz's easy camaraderie with awkward replies, Neil instead watches a bead of sweat slide down the back of Buzz's neck. His jacket covers his shirt, but Neil imagines it trails down Buzz's back or (as Buzz leans back on his elbows) along the sinews in his muscled forearms. He's a fit man, as are all of them. But Buzz particularly wears the demeanor of his rank and body of their training with a casual grace.

It isn't just at work, either. Buzz makes things with his wife seem so easy at all these gatherings, slipping an arm around her and calling her baby, like, "Hey, baby, let's get out of here," whereas Neil would get his wife's coat and say simply, "It's time we left."

Then too soon, it seems as if their moment together has finished.

"Guess I should head back inside," Buzz says. It seems abrupt to Neil, but Buzz introduces the idea naturally with a grin, as if speaking at the prompt of some prearranged signal.

Neil frowns before he schools his expression into something more neutral. Buzz would likely rather go inside once the broadcast is over so he might again joke and jostle his way back into everyone's attention. "Hmm," he tries again, to gain time for a better response to keep Buzz here a little longer.

But when Buzz shifts his weight, really about to stand and leave, Neil realizes something more concrete is called for. So he leans forward and says, "Maybe you better stay out here a little longer."

Buzz gives him a questioning look.

Maybe you shouldn't let the others see how tight you are, Neil thinks, though he would never say anything so crass aloud. It's true enough, though; Buzz has had far too much to drink, even for a crowd that prides themselves on enjoying their leisure time with a vengeance.

Maybe you shouldn't let your wife have to laugh off the situation and try to maneuver you out the door without a scene, he imagines saying. Though of course it wouldn't be appropriate, commenting how Buzz is the sort of man to enjoy himself first and let his wife pick up the pieces later.

Maybe you should use this chance to make a good impression on me, he silently adds in his mind, though Buzz doesn't yet know he ought to do this, doesn't know Neil holds his fate in his hands. It was just days ago Neil learned he would command Apollo 11 after all; just days ago he learned he had been given the authority to decide whether Buzz would come aboard as his second.

What he finally adds aloud is, "I don't mind if you stay."

Buzz smiles slow, the arch grin spreading like the sweet thick honey Neil never knew existed in such plenty until he lived in this part of the country.

"Yeah?" Buzz asks. He's still smiling, but his eyes shift to focus again on that night sky.

Neil takes another puff on his cigar without answering. It's probably the alcohol after all that's making him watch the edges of Buzz's eyes crinkling when his mouth, that full lower lip, curls up a little more.

For the first time he appreciates what Mike Collins said once about Buzz. Buzz had interrupted several times at a critical meeting, blundering into others' presentations with his own solutions and theories. Neil had frowned after him as they dispersed. But Collins had laughed as he remarked, "Quite a guy, isn't he?"

"You don't mind, huh?" Buzz's lips part as he keeps on smiling, leans back with his weight on his palms. He looks like he's appreciating the constellations, but Neil catches him glancing back with some interest and no little calculation from time to time.

Neil blinks when he realizes the reverse of what he just said is true: he doesn't mind if _he_ stays either. The next stop will be home to his dark bedroom with his-and-hers twin beds pushed to opposite sides of the room. It doesn't hold the appeal of staying outside with Buzz a little longer.

"Then I don't mind either," Buzz says to the stars, to the night sky. He crosses his long legs, relaxing back into a comfortable pose, and starts talking again, that steady smooth-voiced commentary with gaps filled in by the hum of night sounds.

And as Neil watches Buzz sitting below him, he realizes this is the place on the certain path, the sure step he can most always see before he's ready to make it. This exchange can lay groundwork for the mission; this interaction can communicate to Buzz how they might work together.

Yes, he thinks as he leans forward, elbows on his knees and shifting closer to Buzz's sprawl on the stairs, that's what it is. It's the conclusion they've all been waiting for, really; the other men inside making jokes, the wives smiling, Buzz here gazing back at Neil with his enigmatic expression. Who will commandeer Apollo 11? It's given every interaction of late a dangerous edge.

Neil is the one man outside of Control who knows it settled. He hadn't minded the confidentiality when he first learned of it. But tonight, here with Buzz, he feels a surge of want. It's his to give to Buzz, this secret, and he feels it, tangible like a smooth round stone in his hand that would fit the chink in an unbalanced boundary.

"Guess you're right," Buzz finally declares. "Too pretty out here, all these stars, to waste the night inside." Despite his words, he immediately tries to stand up. He hasn't metabolized enough alcohol to do this competently, so Neil steps forward to help.

When he shifts Buzz to his feet, Buzz laughs, leaning against him, almost collapsing on him. Neil tightens his grip on Buzz's arm.

"Had more than I thought." Buzz laughs a little, and unselfconsciously grasps Neil's shoulder to help him regain his equilibrium.

"It would seem so." Neil hesitates for two seconds before he lets his hand rest on the small of Buzz's back. It's not strictly necessary for helping him regain his balance. But as they're standing here, a little sweaty in the humid air, the buzz and bright laughter of the conversation inside drifting out to them, Neil thinks there's no harm in it, and perhaps some good. They'll need to learn to work closer together.

It seems Buzz thinks there may be some good in it too, because he keeps his hand resting against Neil's shoulder, curling his fingers there. Neil can picture it now, as the heat from Buzz's body starts to warm Neil's skin even more than the high temperature outside: Buzz piloting the lunar module, his second in command, the two of them moving together in close quarters.

A woman's voice, high and strident, spills outside.

Neil pulls Buzz tighter as he waits to see if anyone else is going to join them. He isn't worried. It's obvious he's helping Buzz and no more.

No one emerges. They're probably all still gathered (after the broadcast now, no doubt) tabulating their reactions as a group in one of those odd social rituals Neil finds tedious and unnecessary: "Did you see?" "Did you hear?" "How exciting!" "I kept thinking --" "I thought the same!"

No, they're still alone, he and Buzz. The odds are still no one yet realizes they're gone.

Neil releases a deep breath. Neil's got only an inch or two on Buzz, but tonight he feels taller with Buzz slumped against him. He looks down at those blue eyes and breathes in the scent of whiskey. Maybe it's the smell of it on Buzz permeating the air; maybe it's the taste, the final note, of Neil's own last sip imbuing the atmosphere.

Buzz is so close in Neil's arms. Most men would bark a laugh at this point, step back, brush off their jacket and slacks. Buzz sways a little and grins at him. "Some party," he whispers.

This night is especially humid, Neil reflects, examining the sheen of sweat on Buzz's brow. Sultry, his wife would call it. Not that she seems to use those sorts of words lately, those imprecise and emotional terms of description. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that they have not had sex more than twice since their daughter died.

Buzz blinks at him. His eyes are very blue at this angle. He's closer to Neil than Neil's wife has been to him in many days. He's shrugged his jacket off, shirt clinging to his clammy back as he reels slightly and slings an arm around Neil's neck to keep upright.

All of it, from Buzz's stumbling steps to stand to this almost-embrace, happens in the space of seconds.

The hum of the insects sending out their calls has become supplemented at some point by the hi-fi turned on inside. Maybe they're dancing to the music playing on the turntable: one partner supporting the other, directing the excitement from watching the broadcast into the controlled movements of the latest popular dance.

An odd thought comes to the fore in Neil's mind, a memory of old photographs of men from other countries, moustaches groomed and hair slick, dancing with one another. Easier perhaps, he imagines, having both partners closer to the same height, none of the limits of propriety constraining their movements to the music. He slips his hand down to Buzz's waist.

It's startling when Buzz raises his eyebrows, offering his first reaction to their proximity. Neil searches his face, but he finds it's not an expression of unease. No, it's more as though Buzz is thinking, "Really, Neil?" almost the way his wife used to say it (not in exasperation as she has lately) when they were first married, with provocation and invitation.

He knows he should take a step or two back, maybe hold Buzz under his elbow to escort him inside, like he would have led a girl out to the dance floor in high school. He should hand him over to his wife and say, "I think he's had one too many," with a wink, that aggressively friendly pose that everyone except Neil pulls off so naturally.

He would come across as stiff, no doubt, and turn the moment into something strange; he would embarrass Buzz's wife with a declaration he hadn't meant to be overheard, and make his own wife sigh at him on the way home. After they left, the other men would scratch the backs of their necks, laugh and say, "Well, that's Neil for you."

Something in him bristles, and Neil doesn't step back. He doesn't guide Buzz in. He just grips him, and thinks about Buzz's body (more wiry and more flexible than his), how Buzz wears the regulation t-shirt and boxers they're all issued in the locker area as though they were made for him particularly, about how Buzz makes the guys laugh uproariously even if Neil doesn't appreciate his sense of humor.

Usually Neil is a man in control of his body, moving in coordination with his thoughts. But now while he's thinking his hands are drifting lower, on the first dip and then the incline out of Buzz's backside, just over the smooth curve of him, feeling the brush of trouser fabric along skin underneath. As he strokes down the descent, feeling along the space of it with clinical appreciation, he stops considering the ways that Buzz makes everything so easy, and just focuses on this: this man, another man in Neil's arms, with a body that's fit and made for physical moments.

Buzz breathes out a little laugh on Neil's collar, like he's trying to catch his breath, or maybe working up to clearing his throat.

Suddenly Neil realizes he can't let Buzz speak. Because Buzz talks; that's what he does. He's good with words and even drunk he can probably embarrass Neil or call him out on something awkward. If Neil was in a meeting, he'd defer to someone else to override Buzz speaking out. If they were in training, he'd call the shot to decide how the exercise would end, circumvent Buzz's spontaneous reaction that way. But since they're alone and outside with no one come looking for them, the only way Neil can figure out to keep Buzz from saying anything is if he actually covers his mouth and stops him from speaking.

So it makes sense, in the way that Neil has had a few whiskeys and the cigar he's smoked half of has fogged his head, that instead of covering Buzz's mouth with his hand, it's easier -- closer, more efficient, really -- to cover Buzz's lips with his.

If they go up together in Apollo, they'll be breathing in the same air literally, breath for breath, the oxygen circulating around them, shared life force lifting their chests and fueling their movements. So it's not that strange to cover Buzz's mouth with his own and think, this is just the same as breathing in and breathing out, the same as moving in sync from constant practice. Breathing, moving, doing: it's why they run drills over and over and review procedure again and again, so the team supports Neil automatically when he's in charge.

Now he waits for Buzz's mouth to support this, to shape itself to his, to mould itself to Neil's pressure.

At first it's just breathing, in and out. Buzz is very still around him and against him, though his arm is still slung around Neil's neck.

But then Buzz's fingers curl, just a little, at the nape of Neil's neck, like girls used to when they were going to let you kiss them instead of pushing you away like they were supposed to (at parties with the lights dimmed, in the shadowed corners of the church basement, in the back seats of cars).

For all that Neil catches every indicator of the training modules, he so often misses other signals: get the wife's coat, sling an arm across her shoulders, murmur the words to assure everyone. But here tonight with Buzz, all the cues are homing in, letting him know as clearly as a written dictate to press in that little bit harder.

It will all work better if Neil sits in control, takes that first step onto the surface (much as Buzz wants to lead Apollo 11, much as he's let it be known he wants that first stride on the moon). So he lets his hand move down more deliberately, down that curve until he's moved both hands around Buzz's backside, mapping territory.

By now Buzz is moving his lips against Neil's, little puffs of breath and sinuous motion of mouth. It could be he's saying something, but Neil's imagines the import is clear enough without Buzz's rambling words. He's taking it as permission without further inquiry, the way leaders must move forward before everyone else catches up.

He thinks but doesn't say, "Come on," and somehow it works, the combination of his hands and his mouth, the posture of command. Buzz's other hand clutches Neil's shirt now, under his suit jacket.

It occurs to Neil that one of their wives could step out and see them, but in this positioning they could look all for the world like they're grappling. It's as though they've had an argument gone too far, taken on someone too easily matched for either to win easily. Then on the way home Neil's wife would say, "I wish you'd take it easier on Buzz" while Buzz's wife would nag him about that one last drink he shouldn't have had.

Is it that different, Neil wonders, from the New Year's parties or late-night cocktails after interminable dinners, when one man's wife and a neighbor's husband end up together by the pool, entwined and leaning in together? Later someone might laugh and say, "That was a wild one tonight, did you see --" and leave the sentence unfinished, eyebrows raised with suggestion. Because it doesn't really _matter_, whose wife and whose husband -- it's just a sultry moment on a humid night.

Though Neil never understood it before, the leaning over hedges and joking about fertilizer when there are drills to rehearse in the morning, or chatting over big romping dogs when there are missions to plan come Monday, now with Buzz in his arms he has an inkling of what it's about. He, Buzz, the others in a clinch with someone else's spouse behind the storage sheds or at the edge of the floodlights in the gardens-- all of them trying to keep connected, human. Maybe the annoyance of it all is worth moments like this, better instead of heading home and closing their doors all alone at the end of the day, ranking this guy and that man in terms of who is better liked, who goes for longer in the simulator, who deals with the press the best.

He feels his jacket bunching, and he shakes it off behind him as he moves his lips down, tugs Buzz's head back with his fingers gripping those sparse inches of cropped hair. Connected, they're connected even as their mouths disengage and Neil kisses the underside of Buzz's jaw, along the damp column of his neck. Buzz sways, murmuring quietly, not any words but a sort of soft melodic reassurance of sighs and grunts, like _that's it, that's all right, we're in this together_.

It's a heady feeling, having a guy like Buzz Aldrin -- all incendiary words and brassy laughter and explosive anger -- on his side even for a moment.

Then Neil does back up, but he's not stepping back -- he's backing Buzz up, moving against the side of the back wall, and feeling -- his arms, his backside, his compact torso, his muscular thighs -- moving in tandem, angles and coordinates agreed upon to get them down to the surface safely.

Working down the zip of Buzz's fly is probably the easiest part of all of this. Opposite to Neil's regular actions of course, and he can't even claim it's similar to helping his boys get undressed for their baths, because his wife takes care of that. But for all that this is the first time Neil's done this to another man, it happens naturally, like he's studied the pattern and put it into practice right from the get-go.

When Buzz gasps, Neil pulls him closer, and when Buzz lets his head fall back Neil mouths his Adam's apple, and when Buzz thrust his hips forward, the needy sound in his throat echoing the whine of bugs and distant chatter and hi-fi, Neil slips his hand into Buzz's briefs and wraps his fingers around Buzz's stiff prick.

Buzz's eyes when he gazes at him are dazed and glittery. Neil tugs up, fists down, and wonders if Buzz watches him with those blue eyes like he watched the sky earlier, imagining himself (or them together) on that dusty surface of the moon, some place, some thing, completely foreign and totally beyond the ken of most people's contemplation.

It shouldn't feel so easy, this completely new thing. But it's what he does, what Buzz does, for their bread and butter, for themselves -- they dream up ways for pipes and switches to fit together, they think of how men can compact themselves into spaces that shouldn't hold humans, they meditate on how to walk into a future that's meant for everyone but only experienced by a few.

They need to do this, like Neil's captain back in the war had said he needed to bond with the other men in the unit if they were going to fight side-by-side. They need to feel and clutch and trust, because the weight of what they will have to do together is so unimaginable, so immense.

Neil marvels that instead of being awkward, the movements turning out jerky, they've got into a rhythm already that's easy. Buzz rolls his hips forward, his breaths and the sounds from his lips weaving the soundtrack in rhythm. Neil's hand moves in response, and he doesn't have to ask, too tight, too loose, because he's reading Buzz's body and Buzz's small choked noises that this is just right for right now.

Buzz clutches him harder now, his expression filled with confused wonder as his breathing gets heavier. If Neil spoke right now he'd say, "That's right, hold onto me, I've got you, you can let go, I've got you." Except he doesn't want to speak, and knows not to add a new element to the mix when the results are turning out far better than he could have calculated. He only has one shot to get this right.

Instead he pushes his erection against Buzz. They can't match, Neil taller, Buzz more unsteady, but they're surging forward together all the same.

When Buzz's breath starts to hitch, Neil watches him, fascinated, the play of the muscles in his neck, the strain in his face and that sudden slackness. Even if he's thinking about working his way to the finish, bringing this thing between them to a complete circle, he's also got this -- this _wonder_ in front of him. He's not one for poetry. He's better at the quantifiable and the incontestable. But all the same, it's not like he doesn't recognize poetry, like he doesn't connect with the ineffable when he sees it.

It's gratifying, doing it right, seeing the results, knowing when Buzz begins to pulse in his hand that they have achieved this together. In the back of his mind it occurs to Neil he has no idea if his wife really finds pleasure in what they do, in what they've done in the past (perhaps forever past, with their one daughter gone and all that space between their beds). But with Buzz, there's pleasure that's absolutely and empirically _there_ \-- Neil feels Buzz's spasms, sees the waves of sensation working through his body, witnesses the utter surrender.

No, not utter surrender, he realizes. As Neil flexes his fingers slightly and reflects this is the time during the act when a man should let go, Buzz surges forward to bring their mouths together hard. It's a teeth-clacking messy kiss that takes Neil by surprise, not as easy or as perfect in practice as what came before. But it's a curve-ball Neil can live with, as Buzz's hand winds between them and lands firmly on his erection, as Buzz pulls at him through the cloth and squeezes in a way Neil doesn't expect, but finds works for him all the same.

Buzz's murmur is a little less reassuring when Buzz smiles and shows his teeth. But that's all right too, because there's a rush to that underpinning of aggression, a shift in the route that can take them higher, to a better spot than the one they mapped out.

It's edged all around with friendly menace, Buzz's fingers pulling and grasping with Neil's trousers now open and exposing him, and it's made Neil harder. Harder and more frantic even though it's not about Buzz returning the favor or communicating the trust Neil felt back to him. No, the competition isn't over for Buzz.

Part of Neil wants to tell him, don't worry, no need, because he's gotten what he needed from all of this. But in a way he can't work out even to himself, he doesn't want Buzz to stop even if this changes everything that came before, changes what Neil thought of as coming together, building trust. Because Buzz has a grip in his fingers and a twist in his wrist that has Neil feeling less than steady on his own feet, that has him bucking forward and breathing irregularly, not just faster but to a syncopated beat all out of rhythm.

When he succumbs to Buzz's pull, there's something else flashing in Buzz's eyes besides the stars and the moonlight, a glimmer of triumph. There's still a game between them, Neil realizes. Even if Neil is all for laying out the rules and working through the steps, Buzz is the kind of guy who veers off and changes the plan midway if he thinks he could win.

He's a moment past finishing, panting, when Buzz opens his mouth and Neil (with his cock softening) stiffens.

"Crazy night, huh?" Buzz says. The corners of his mouth twitch as he wipes his hand on his handkerchief and drops it carelessly to the ground.

"Yeah," Neil wants to say.

But he hasn't time to reply. Buzz has already moved on. He's walking steadier than Neil might have imagined he could with that much drink in him, walking away to rejoin the others inside, taking those first strides before Neil can determine what should happen next.

 

***~* the end *~***


End file.
